Tank Time (Blogophilia 8.8)
“Oh, Holy Father. Grant me peace as I go to my hour of triumph. Amen.” He repeated the prayer as the huge gray truck trundled down the hill, moaning and gasping like a bull in full throws with a heifer. My, how the fiesta has grown. Aircraft droned overhead like Nicodemus in his tree. Even Pilate was on the pavement waiting for him. Only thing missing was the cross itself. Only there won’t be any impalement except by flying shrapnel. Isn’t that lovely? The media machine won’t be denied. He could sense the clamoring for the public death. But the death won’t be televised, because this cave will be where it will go down. “Oh, Holy Father. Grant me peace as I go to my hour of triumph. Amen.” A poker game, this has turned into a winner take all poker game. He sat on one side of the table and the pigs on the other, waiting for the deal from the unseen dealer. The luck of the draw was the true meaning of life. It was all a game. The Pigs ...